Ears Disney Quotes

I look at the blanked-out faces of the other passengers--hoisting their briefcases, their backpacks, shuffling to disembark--and I think of what Hobie said: beauty alters the grain of reality. And I keep thinking too of the more conventional wisdom: namely, that the pursuit of pure beauty is a trap, a fast track to bitterness and sorrow, that beauty has to be wedded to something more meaningful. Only what is that thing? Why am I made the way I am? Why do I care about all the wrong things, and nothing at all for the right ones? Or, to tip it another way: how can I see so clearly that everything I love or care about is illusion, and yet--for me, anyway--all that's worth living for lies in that charm? A great sorrow, and one that I am only beginning to understand: we don't get to choose our own hearts. We can't make ourselves want what's good for us or what's good for other people. We don't get to choose the people we are. Because--isn't it drilled into us constantly, from childhood on, an unquestioned platitude in the culture--? From William Blake to Lady Gaga, from Rousseau to Rumi to Tosca to Mister Rogers, it's a curiously uniform message, accepted from high to low: when in doubt, what to do? How do we know what's right for us? Every shrink, every career counselor, every Disney princess knows the answer: "Be yourself." "Follow your heart." Only here's what I really, really want someone to explain to me. What if one happens to be possessed of a heart that can't be trusted--? What if the heart, for its own unfathomable reasons, leads one willfully and in a cloud of unspeakable radiance away from health, domesticity, civic responsibility and strong social connections and all the blandly-held common virtues and instead straight toward a beautiful flare of ruin, self-immolation, disaster?...If your deepest self is singing and coaxing you straight toward the bonfire, is it better to turn away? Stop your ears with wax? Ignore all the perverse glory your heart is screaming at you? Set yourself on the course that will lead you dutifully towards the norm, reasonable hours and regular medical check-ups, stable relationships and steady career advancement the New York Times and brunch on Sunday, all with the promise of being somehow a better person? Or...is it better to throw yourself head first and laughing into the holy rage calling your name?

Well I come from a land, from a far away place, where the caravan camels roam. They will cut of your ear if they don't like your face, it's babaric, but hey, it's home.

Because--isn't it drilled into us constantly, from childhood on, an unquestioned platitude in the culture--? From William Blake to Lady Gaga, from Rousseau to Rumi to Tosca to Mister Rogers, it's a curiously uniform message, accepted from high to low: when in doubt, what to do? How do we know what's right for us? Every shrink, every career counselor, every Disney princess knows the answer: "Be yourself." "Follow your heart." Only here's what I really, really want someone to explain to me. What if one happens to be possessed of a heart that can't be trusted--? What if the heart, for its own unfathomable reasons, leads one willfully and in a cloud of unspeakable radiance away from health, domesticity, civic responsibility and strong social connections and all the blandly-held common virtues and instead straight toward a beautiful flare of ruin, self-immolation, disaster?...If your deepest self is singing and coaxing you straight toward the bonfire, is it better to turn away? Stop your ears with wax? Ignore all the perverse glory your heart is screaming at you? Set yourself on the course that will lead you dutifully towards the norm, reasonable hours and regular medical check-ups, stable relationships and steady career advancement the New York Times and brunch on Sunday, all with the promise of being somehow a better person? Or...is it better to throw yourself head first and laughing into the holy rage calling your name?

You do realize you’re in a cult, don’t you? You’re in a fucking cult.” This word hurts our ears so we cover them and think-sing a song from the latest Disney musical, which is our new favorite musical.

Unless you're under 12 or into role playing, you shouldn't be wearing Mickey Mouse ears #AHOLE

A great sorrow, and one that I am only beginning to understand: we don’t get to choose our own hearts. We can’t make ourselves want what’s good for us or what’s good for other people. We don’t get to choose the people we are. Because—isn’t it drilled into us constantly, from childhood on, an unquestioned platitude in the culture—? From William Blake to Lady Gaga, from Rousseau to Rumi to Tosca to Mister Rogers, it’s a curiously uniform message, accepted from high to low: when in doubt, what to do? How do we know what’s right for us? Every shrink, every career counselor, every Disney princess knows the answer: “Be yourself.” “Follow your heart.” Only here’s what I really, really want someone to explain to me. What if one happens to be possessed of a heart that can’t be trusted—? What if the heart, for its own unfathomable reasons, leads one willfully and in a cloud of unspeakable radiance away from health, domesticity, civic responsibility and strong social connections and all the blandly-held common virtues and instead straight towards a beautiful flare of ruin self-immolation, disaster? Is Kitsey right? If your deepest self is singing and coaxing you straight toward the bonfire, is it better to turn away? Stop your ears with wax? Ignore all the perverse glory your heart is screaming at you?

What if the cloak wasn't magic at all, like the feather in that story Granny used to tell me about the elephant with the big ears?

Here’s a handy list of warning signs of the worst people on the road. Some are tuned-out menaces, others are just assholes. Be alert, and if you see this on a vehicle close to you, get away now. STICK FIGURE FAMILY: I hereby decree that you are allowed to accelerate to ramming speed every time you see a minivan with a silhouette of the family and their names on the rear window. We get it, you didn’t pull out. Is that information you really think I’m interested in? I know you’re a parent. You’re driving a Plymouth Voyager with two hundred thousand miles on it; do you imagine I’m behind you thinking, “Who is that gay entrepreneur?” Even worse is the theme family. Oh, you’re into snowboarding? Oh, you’ve got cats? Oh, they’ve all got Mickey ears, they must really love Disney. You know what I love? Driving more than fifty-three miles an hour. How about a stick figure depiction of your family moving the fuck over and letting me get to work on time?

To most people today, the name Snow White evokes visions of dwarfs whistling as they work, and a wide–eyed, fluttery princess singing, "Some day my prince will come." (A friend of mine claims this song is responsible for the problems of a whole generation of American women.) Yet the Snow White theme is one of the darkest and strangest to be found in the fairy tale canon — a chilling tale of murderous rivalry, adolescent sexual ripening, poisoned gifts, blood on snow, witchcraft, and ritual cannibalism. . .in short, not a tale originally intended for children's tender ears. Disney's well–known film version of the story, released in 1937, was ostensibly based on the German tale popularized by the Brothers Grimm. Originally titled "Snow–drop" and published in Kinder–und Hausmarchen in 1812, the Grimms' "Snow White" is a darker, chillier story than the musical Disney cartoon, yet it too had been cleaned up for publication, edited to emphasize the good Protestant values held by Jacob and Wilhelm Grimm. (...) Variants of Snow White were popular around the world long before the Grimms claimed it for Germany, but their version of the story (along with Walt Disney's) is the one that most people know today. Elements from the story can be traced back to the oldest oral tales of antiquity, but the earliest known written version was published in Italy in 1634.

Feeling almost giddily light and kind of . . . unrestrained, she pointed out at the horizon. “Mermaid off the port bow!” He snorted in her ear. “Phew. I’ve gotten the Little Mermaid reference out of my system. I was going to explode.” “I don’t know how I feel about my boat making you think of a Disney movie.

The list of names on the windows are taught to cast members as the credits to the beginning or end of a movie, just like showing the actors and film makers who created the film you had just seen. Susan told us that if you’re walking toward the castle, the names on the windows represent the opening credits to your day, and walking away from the castle represented the closing credits.

On Tuesday, I saw Danielle at the Kids Club meeting. Her return was triumphant. She showed up with presents for everyone. Each member of the Kids Club, except Becca and Charlotte, got a Mickey Mouse sticker. Danielle had chosen special presents for Becca, Charlotte, Mr. Katz, and me. For Becca, a Donald Duck T-shirt. For Charlotte, a book about Disney World. For Mr. Katz, mouse ears with “Mr. K.” written on the back. And for me, a delicate silver necklace in the shape of a star. “It’s a wishing star,” Danielle told me. “Because you helped make one of my wishes come true. I’ll never forget that.

Why can't we sit together? What's the point of seat reservations,anyway? The bored woman calls my section next,and I think terrible thoughts about her as she slides my ticket through her machine. At least I have a window seat. The middle and aisle are occupied with more businessmen. I'm reaching for my book again-it's going to be a long flight-when a polite English accent speaks to the man beside me. "Pardon me,but I wonder if you wouldn't mind switching seats.You see,that's my girlfriend there,and she's pregnant. And since she gets a bit ill on airplanes,I thought she might need someone to hold back her hair when...well..." St. Clair holds up the courtesy barf bag and shakes it around. The paper crinkles dramatically. The man sprints off the seat as my face flames. His pregnant girlfriend? "Thank you.I was in forty-five G." He slides into the vacated chair and waits for the man to disappear before speaking again. The guy onhis other side stares at us in horror,but St. Clair doesn't care. "They had me next to some horrible couple in matching Hawaiian shirts. There's no reason to suffer this flight alone when we can suffer it together." "That's flattering,thanks." But I laugh,and he looks pleased-until takeoff, when he claws the armrest and turns a color disturbingy similar to key lime pie. I distract him with a story about the time I broke my arm playing Peter Pan. It turned out there was more to flying than thinking happy thoughts and jumping out a window. St. Clair relaxes once we're above the clouds. Time passes quickly for an eight-hour flight. We don't talk about what waits on the other side of the ocean. Not his mother. Not Toph.Instead,we browse Skymall. We play the if-you-had-to-buy-one-thing-off-each-page game. He laughs when I choose the hot-dog toaster, and I tease him about the fogless shower mirror and the world's largest crossword puzzle. "At least they're practical," he says. "What are you gonna do with a giant crossword poster? 'Oh,I'm sorry Anna. I can't go to the movies tonight. I'm working on two thousand across, Norwegian Birdcall." "At least I'm not buying a Large Plastic Rock for hiding "unsightly utility posts.' You realize you have no lawn?" "I could hide other stuff.Like...failed French tests.Or illegal moonshining equipment." He doubles over with that wonderful boyish laughter, and I grin. "But what will you do with a motorized swimming-pool snack float?" "Use it in the bathtub." He wipes a tear from his cheek. "Ooo,look! A Mount Rushmore garden statue. Just what you need,Anna.And only forty dollars! A bargain!" We get stumped on the page of golfing accessories, so we switch to drawing rude pictures of the other people on the plane,followed by rude pictures of Euro Disney Guy. St. Clair's eyes glint as he sketches the man falling down the Pantheon's spiral staircase. There's a lot of blood. And Mickey Mouse ears. After a few hours,he grows sleepy.His head sinks against my shoulder. I don't dare move.The sun is coming up,and the sky is pink and orange and makes me think of sherbet.I siff his hair. Not out of weirdness.It's just...there. He must have woken earlier than I thought,because it smells shower-fresh. Clean. Healthy.Mmm.I doze in and out of a peaceful dream,and the next thing I know,the captain's voice is crackling over the airplane.We're here. I'm home.

Disney now unofficially tolerates hundreds of small online shops run by die-hard fans selling T-shirts, buttons, pins, patches, jewelry, and thousands more items that leverage Disney characters. These stores don’t pay Disney a dime in licensing fees. Why the pivot to tolerating knockoffs? Because Disney learned that fan-made, unlicensed twenty-five-dollar T-shirts drive their wearers to Disney parks, where they buy expensive entrance tickets and pass the day spending even more money. Another reason for Disney’s newfound tolerance: it has discovered the marketing research value from the hundreds of small knockoff shops. These shops turn out to be a vibrant source of ideas for new official Disney merchandise. In 2016 the online vendor Bibbidi Bobbidi Brooke came out with a hugely popular line of rose-gold sequined Mickey ears, something that had not occurred to the Disney licensors. So Disney copied the design, which sold out immediately in its official stores. Bibbidi Bobbidi Brooke was gracious, posting “always excited to see new merch offerings.” Her fans replied, “Yours will always be the original!!!” Everyone wins.

When in doubt, what to do? How do we know what's right for us? Every shrink, every career counselor, every Disney princess knows the answer: "Be yourself." "Follow your heart." Only here's what I really, really want someone to explain to me. What if one happens to be possessed of a heart that can't be trusted—? What if the heart, for its own unfathomable reasons, leads one willfully and in a cloud of unspeakable radiance away from health, domesticity, civic responsibility and strong social connections and all the blandly-held common virtues and instead straight toward a beautiful flare of ruin, self-immolation, disaster?... If your deepest self is singing and coaxing you straight toward the bonfire, is it better to turn away? Stop your ears with wax? Ignore all the perverse glory your heart is screaming at you? Set yourself on the course that will lead you dutifully towards the norm, reasonable hours and regular medical check-ups, stable relationships and steady career advancement the New York Times and brunch on Sunday, all with the promise of being somehow a better person? Or... is it better to throw yourself head first and laughing into the holy rage calling your name?

When in doubt, what to do? How do we know what's right for us? Every shrink, every career counselor, every Disney princess knows the answer: "Be yourself." "Follow your heart." Only here's what I really, really want someone to explain to me. What if one happens to be possessed of a heart that can't be trusted—? What if the heart, for its own unfathomable reasons, leads one willfully and in a cloud of unspeakable radiance away from health, domesticity, civic responsibility and strong social connections and all the blandly-held common virtues and instead straight toward a beautiful flare of ruin, self-immolation, disaster?... If your deepest self is singing and coaxing you straight toward the bonfire, is it better to turn away? Stop your ears with wax? Ignore all the perverse glory your heart is screaming at you? Set yourself on the course that will lead you dutifully towards the norm, reasonable hours and regular medical check-ups, stable relationships and steady career advancement, the New York Times and brunch on Sunday, all with the promise of being somehow a better person? Or... is it better to throw yourself head first and laughing into the holy rage calling your name?

One of the class leaders was working on the front desk in a Disney resort at the time of the incident. The housekeeper had encountered something very rare. She knocked on the door and, having gotten no response from any guests inside the room, opened it to reveal a cow standing between the beds and the TV. If you think that’s funny, then it gets better: this room was on the second floor, and whoever put the cow there had to get it onto Disney property and past all the cast members working at the resort, before taking it to the second floor. The moral of the story: EXPECT EVERYTHING.

Disney foresaw the danger from lightning when they built the park, and if you look at the very top of Cinderella Castle you’ll see a spire: that spire isn’t for Cinderella to hang a washing line, it’s a lightning conductor which is meant to redirect any errant bolt of lightning into the ground to discharge, with no harm to cast members or guests.

Goodbye means going away and going away means forgetting. — J.M. Barrie (Peter Pan)

In Attractions, don’t be afraid to say “no”. I was tentative at first because I didn’t want to cause problems. However, you must get into people’s faces in Attractions. You are actually trained to yell at guests if necessary.

one of the many prohibitions in the Disney College Program is that we are not allowed any pets—not even a fish.

Take advantage of the opportunities you have during your program. It’s not every day that you get to live in Florida with incredible people and make magic daily. During the last two months of my program, Sara and I made sure we conquered as much on our bucket list as possible. If you make a bucket list, use it. Don’t regret not doing something when you have the chance.

Other perks of working for Disney are primarily in the form of discounts. The money I’ve saved through Disney discounts is unbelievable. I remember working at Staples and being excited when they finally gave us a 10% discount, which is nothing compared to what Disney offers. I got up to 60% off hotel rooms, 20-40% off merchandise, 20-40% off dining, a variety of discounts on Disney recreational offerings, 20% off quick service meals at Animal Kingdom and the resorts, and a holiday coupon book which included 30%, 40%, and 50% off meal coupons, free popcorn and soda coupons, free PhotoPass downloads, free rounds of mini golf, and extra park tickets.

To perform the Disney Scoop, you simply reach down and scoop up the trash while still walking and deposit it into the nearest trash barrel, which should only be about 20 feet away. (Disney executives did research into how far people would walk before littering so that they knew where to place trash cans. Unfortunately, guests still litter occasionally, but it was an interesting idea.)

The biggest photo in the center of the page was of a gorgeous blond dog named Hudson who was posed with a smile and an irresistible head tilt. He looked like a Disney character brought to life, complete with a starry-eyed expression and a filtered halo of sunlight around his head. At first glance she thought he was pure yellow Lab, but the dark muzzle and oversized ears suggested that there was something houndy mixed in his DNA.

I’m not looking for a friend,” Luke said. “I’m looking for a Jedi Master.” The creature’s eyes went wide and his tapered ears dipped. “Oohhh, Jedi Master. Yoda. You seek Yoda.

Scar: We’re going to watch Frozen. Are you coming back to our room? My lips parted and utter excitement ran through me. I shoved my Atlas back into my pocket and started running up the stairs, taking them two at a time. He’d finally dropped his walls, he was allowing me to peek into his heart and see the Disney princess living in there. Was it Belle? Aurora? Ariel? Of course it was Ariel. He’d been waiting to get his legs for years and live above the sea. We needed to have another movie night. Maybe he’d wear Mickey Mouse ears if I bought them for him. We could get matching ones for the pride. Different colours for each of us.

So them who can't learn from a tale about critters, just ain't got the ears tuned to listen." -Uncle Remus in Disney's Song of the South

Excuse me, Cinderella?” a deep voice called next to my ear. Cinderella? I removed my hand from my face to look at the guy who belonged to that voice, then quickly pushed myself up onto my elbows when I took in his face, so close to mine. My cheeks burned with embarrassed heat, but I didn’t know how to look away from him. Despite a large red mark on his forehead, his face was flawless and masculine, with a strong brow and nose, a smirk I knew would’ve made my knees weak had I been standing, and a lethal stare from green eyes so clear it was as if I could see through the iris. My gaze had become so fixated on the way his lips moved that it took a few seconds too long to realize he’d said something. “I’m sorry, what?” The smirk broadened for a brief moment, giving me a glimpse of straight, white teeth. He leaned over me until his lips were at my ear, and if I’d had the capability to breathe around him, I would’ve stopped then. “I said I think you lost this,” he drawled, and I swooned. Literally . . . swooned. As in: all the air left my body in one hard rush, I was unable to keep myself up on my elbows any longer, my head felt light and dizzy, the room spun, and I was pretty sure I’d just entered a romance novel. It really didn’t matter that it was from the lingering effects of nearly choking to death, and then unknowingly holding my breath for too long. “Whoa.” He quickly put a hand under my head before it could smack on the hardwood floor. “I’m fine,” I said breathlessly, and internally berated myself for doing everything imaginable to look like an idiot tonight. I tried to sit up, but the guy was still hovering over me, making it impossible to go farther than I’d been. “Are you sure you’re okay?” “Yes,” I promised, and blew out a steadying breath when he sat back. “Good. I can’t have you passing out on me, Cinderella.” “Cin—” My head shook firmly as I corrected him. “No, my name is Rorie.” With another slow smirk, he gestured to the red mark on his forehead for barely a second, then reached behind him and produced my stiletto. My embarrassment from earlier couldn’t compare to the level it was at then as I put it all together. My shoe had flown into his face. “Oh my God,” I whispered so low, the words drifted away with the bass of the music. “I’m so sorry.” He laughed easily, as if he hadn’t just taken a five-inch stiletto to the face, and glanced from my shoe to me. “My name is Declan,” he provided. “I already know this shoe belongs to you. What I want to know now, Cinderella, is if I give this back to you, are you going to run away from me?” Despite my humiliation, my lips spread into a smile as the name finally made sense. I reached for the shoe, but Declan held it away from me. His expression showed he was still waiting for an answer. With a raised eyebrow, I said, “I lost both shoes. I don’t care what Disney said, a girl can’t run away very easily with only one shoe.” His smirk stretched to match my smile, and he dipped his head close. “Then I’m keeping the other one that hit the back of my head.

Three car doors slammed in quick staccato as we got out. For a long moment we looked around at the lot, where we were just one in a massive sea of cars. Patrons who parked in the lot of the Willow Creek Faire could see the entrance when they got out of their cars: a two-dimensional castle façade that some volunteers had put together about five years ago. But not here. Our entire Faire could probably fit in this parking lot, and all we could see around us was row after row of cars. Like parking at Disney World, but without the trams or mouse ears. “Holy shit.” April wasn’t part of our Faire, but even she sounded impressed. “Where’s the entrance?” “Up that way.” I couldn’t see the gates I was pointing toward, but the stream of people told me I was indicating the right way. “A little bit of a hike, then.” April looked behind us, where the grassy lot continued to fill slowly with cars. “Holy shit,” she said again. “This isn’t a Faire. This is a town.” “Yeah.” Mitch had been here before—so had I; if you grew up around here you went to the Maryland Renaissance Festival at least once during your childhood—but even his eyes were a little wide at the vastness of it all. “This place is . . . It’s pretty big.” He paused. “That’s what she said.” I was too nervous to snicker, but April elbowed him in the ribs, and that was good enough. “Okay. We’re going in.” He reached over his head for the back of his T-shirt, pulling it off and tossing it into the back of the truck. April sighed. “All right, Kilty. Naked enough?” “Look on the bright side.” He wiggled his eyebrows at her as he stuck his keys into the sporran he wore attached to the kilt. “I’m not working this Faire. Which means I get to wear this kilt the way it’s meant to be worn.” I coughed. I didn’t want to think about what Mitch was or was not wearing under there. Which was sad, because thinking about Mitch in a kilt used to be one of my favorite hobbies. The man was born to wear that green plaid

you have the confidence to do these things by yourself, which most people wouldn’t. It’s not that you’re being a loser [my term for my habit of doing things by myself], but you don’t need other people to have fun.

Disney does reject people who have participated in a program and then apply for a new semester.

Dorian was undeniably beautiful. When he entered a room, spoke in your ear, or touched you in any way whatsoever, reality seemed to shift and flicker like he was some godling arriving to take away all pain in the world and to sing that Disney song, I will show you the world… While conveniently taking off your undergarments—gender would not save you from his silver tongue. His fetishes were multi-faceted and his appetite was multi-sexual.

The architectural uniformity, down to plantings and the color of curtains seen from the street, was ridiculed. Jokes were made about residents being required to wear Mickey Mouse ears and practice aggressive friendliness that is the hallmark of the theme parks. At one point in the town's early days, the Orlando Sentinel ran a spoof about Disney extras being paid to walk dogs in Celebration to create a homey feeling. It was perhaps an early indication of the town's growing sensitivity that not many living there were amused.

And at least one person comes in seeking the brochure about saving the sea turtles that Crush told them about next door. We have to explain again and again how to get to the Coral Reef restaurant (“ out the doors, to the left, all the way around past the sea gulls and the ride entrance”), and the Worldwide Conservation Fund makes much more when you can implore guests to help save the sea turtles who’ve just been talking with them.

Hey. It’s tingling.” I open my eyes, blinking through the lust hazing my brain. “Huh?” “It’s definitely tingling,” he says, staring intently at my neck. “Shit. That’s so cute.” “What’s tingling? Your dick?” I buck my hips, feeling the hardening bulge between his legs. “Not tingling. Tin-gel-ing.” He strokes a finger behind my ear, making me shiver, and I realise he’s brushing his fingertip over my tattoo. “You mean Tinkerbell? I got her after I went to Disney a couple years back.” “Tinkerbell. She’s called Tingeling in Swedish. Hm. It’s fitting. You’re both about the same size.